Tuesday, March 28, 1:30 PM. Amy.

Beth is down for her nap. She’ll be up again to eat in an hour, so I’ll write quickly.

Brewer woke up this morning. I don’t know when exactly. I was sleeping upstairs and Garrett was staying with him in the office. When I checked on them at 6:00, Brewer’s eyes were open. At first I was alarmed, but then he smiled at me. The right side of his face—his whole right side—is immobile and numb. He has always had a habit of giving me crooked smiles, but not like this. Still, it was so good to see him awake.

We were able to talk. He’s weak, and it’s hard to understand him, but his mind seems okay. If anything he seems a little sharper than he did a few days ago.

He can’t get up. We had to figure something out to help him pee without actually getting to the bathroom.

He’s able to sip Gatorade from a flexi-straw. At lunchtime I was able to get some broth into him. I’m thankful for that.

All the kids went in to see him. We all made a ring together and took turns praying for him. No one expects me to pray anymore; it passes me by.

He slept again after that and has been up and down on almost a baby’s schedule: half an hour awake, two or three hours sleeping. Each of us had a little alone time with him. Coolidge cuddled beside him all day.

The mood is up today in a furtive and desperate way. We are all exhilarated that he’s opened his eyes at all. They’re so certain he’s going to get better.

Certain, or wishing? Does it matter? I don’t know how to soften the blow that’s coming, and maybe it would be crueler to try.

He held Beth a long time, whispered to her, held fingers and hands, touched her face. I let them fall asleep together.

She won’t remember him.